


I Will Teach You How to Dance

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Episode Tag, First Kiss, Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Romance, Songfic, The Sign of Three, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock teaches John the waltz.</p><p>(Missing scene from The Sign of Three.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Teach You How to Dance

**Author's Note:**

> The song is 'I'm not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you' by the Black Kids - although I was more inspired by Kate Nash's cover which you should definitley check out. I've never written a song fic before and after this experience doubt I ever will again.
> 
> No copyright infringement is intended.

_You are the boy that I've been dreaming of_

_Ever since I was a little boy_

 

John clears his throat and raps on the door twice. He hears shuffling from behind the door to his old flat, before Sherlock swings 221B’s front door open and smiles, “Ah, John.” He waves his hand casually towards the flat and John takes the signal as a sort of ‘come-in’, squaring his shoulders and glancing around at the flat – all tables and chairs have been pushed to the edge of the lounge along with piles and piles of papers, stale mugs of tea, and packets of cigarettes. The place looks worse than it did the first time he saw it all those years ago. “I’d have thought you’d use your old key,” Sherlock murmurs, half to John and half to the wall, as he digs out a CD player and drops it down on the floor. John shrugs and answers the question Sherlock’s not voicing.

 

“Didn’t seem right; it’s not like it’s really my place anymore, is it?”

 

Their eyes meet, and Sherlock frowns. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, before turning back to fiddle with the music player.

 

 ( _You are the boy that I've been dreaming of_

 _Ever since I was a little boy_ ).

 

The CD, clearly a home recording for the way it crackles as it starts up, begins to play a simple waltz and Sherlock smiles, clearly satisfied, before turning to John and brushing his hands off. “Now, a waltz, is very easy. Even you should be able to master this.”

_One, I'm biting my tongue_

“It really comes down to four simple steps,” Sherlock is saying, as John stares at the man and feels his blood loudly rushing between his ears. His palms feel sweaty. This was a mistake. This is all a mistake.

 

“Firstly, you take up the stance. Since you’ll obviously be leading on the night, I’ll have to be Mary. Okay? John? Are you listening?”

 

_Two, she's kissing on you_

“Hmm?” John blinks, then looks up to concerned grey eyes with a start. He shakes his head and forces his best polite-smile, “Oh, sorry, yeah. Er, the stance. Right. Er, we hold hands, yeah? And then my right hand is on your hip while yours is on my.. shoulder. My shoulder. Yeah?”

 

Sherlock frowns, but nods. “John…”

 

“Shut up.” John steps forward, taking Sherlock’s hand a little rougher than probably warranted. “Tell me the next step.”

 

_Three, oh why can't you see?_

“You lead with the right foot, yes, that’s right, and then together, okay, then step. It’s a box, see? Right, together, step, together, back, together, step – ow. John, John get off my foot. John. John?”

 

_One, two, three, four_

“This was a mistake.”

 

John drops Sherlock’s hands, the detective letting them fall limply to his sides as he stares at John in confusion. He licks his lips, slowly coming to an understanding, before flicking his gaze to the floor as the CD comes to a gradual end.

 

“You need to learn how to dance,”

 

“Not with you I don’t.”

 

Sherlock flinches, but John’s beyond apologies now.

 

“How do you do it?”

 

The detective looks up reluctantly, his eyes once again locking onto John’s. He sighs and shakes his head, “I have to, don’t I?”

_The word's on the streets and it's on the news_

_I'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you_

The two look away, John physically turning himself to face the wall behind him and Sherlock simply returning his gaze to his feet. A silent impasse has clearly been reached, and just as it seems the two are going to leave it too late – let the gap between them become so great a canyon can form – John sighs. He closes his eyes and rests his hands on his hips before glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock.

 

“You should close the curtains. People could see. They might… talk.”

 

Sherlock makes no quip, no light-hearted murmur of “people do little else”. He simply nods and turns to pull the curtains shut in one swift movement, suppressing a cough as the dust falls from the rarely used fabric.

 

_He's got two left feet and he bites my moves_

The two take up their stances again, they embrace like two estranged brothers. Distant.

 

_I'm not gonna teach him how to dance, dance, dance, dance_

“We’ll take it slow, okay? Just – yes. Yes, that’s it. Right, together, step, together, back, together, step, together, right, together, okay,”

_The second I do I know we're gonna be through_

“I just don’t understand,” John’s stare is fixed on his feet and his eyebrows are drawn as he learns the steps, “I don’t see how you can… do this. Or, do all of it. It doesn’t seem to… bother you.”

 

Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on the top of John’s head and he sighs, that rush of breath that indicates a rapid monologue is about to begin, before John looks up quickly and makes him pause.

 

“I just don’t see,” John repeats, slower, more cautiously, “How we could have been… what we were, only to become… what we are. How you can teach me to dance, for my fiancé, with no thought as to how you’re going to feel watching it.”

 

_I'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you_

“John,” Sherlock has always had a talent, John thinks, for saying his name as if it were the most important syllable on the planet, “What do you suppose would happen, if I were to simply let you go? What do you suppose would happen to me?”

 

_He don't suspect a thing, I wish he'd get a clue_

“I don’t know. You’d… well, you’d survive. You’d be fine.”

 

“Don’t lie.”

 

_I'm not gonna teach him how to dance, dance, dance, dance_

 

This time, when John drops Sherlock’s hand, the consulting detective simply shrugs and pulls away. He sits down on the sofa , pushed away to the left hand wall, and stares at his hands. He ruffles his curls in aggravation and then forces his back to hit the end of the sofa. He lets his fingers trace the seam of his trousers and breathes for a second.

 

“I… I love you, John. You know that. I never knew… I never thought… Ugh, I never thought I could _love_ anything. But I do, I, I love you. So. That’s, that’s quite something. For me. And you, you love Mary. She makes you happy, and you want to marry her, and for me the most important thing is that you get what you want and that you smile. You have a brilliant smile. So, logically, the most important thing for me is to ensure you get married. To ensure you have a wonderful day, and a wonderful life, and maybe one day you’ll settle down in a dreary suburban town with a dog and 2.5 children which, well, which quite frankly sounds terrible, but for you it will be wonderful. And you’ll be happy. So, that’s okay. I just… I want you to be _happy_ , John Watson. It is very important to me that you are happy.”

 

“But what about _you_?”

 

_You are the boy that I've been dreaming of_

“I… I have loved something. So, wherever I go now, whatever happens, that… has happened. I have loved. And, maybe, hopefully, if I arrange your flowers, and throw you a stag do, and teach you to dance; maybe I’ll get to keep that love in my life. That’s enough.”

 

_Ever since I was a little boy_

John finds himself sitting next to Sherlock, despite his better judgement. His ancient injury twinges in his leg and he rubs a firm hand into it, biting the inside of his cheek in contemplation. “You can’t love alone, though. You can’t love me if I love her.”

 

Sherlock barks out a laugh and turns to his blogger, “Apparently, I can.”

 

_You are the boy that I've been dreaming of_

_Ever since, ever since_

John stands again and holds his hand out to Sherlock who, after a pause, takes it and allows himself to be pulled to a standing position. This time, they don’t bother with the music, simply crowding each other’s personal space and moving in silent synchronisation. Sherlock’s eyes fall shut and, eventually, his head comes to rest in the crook of John’s neck.

 

The older man says nothing.

_One, I'm biting my tongue_

Soft lips press at John’s neck and he pulls in a sharp breath, his continuous box-steps stalling for a beat or two.

 

_Two, he's kissing on you_

Taking his silence as permission, Sherlock allows himself to tilt his head a little. He presses his lips to John’s in chaste kiss, and then pulls away a breath to simply stare at his shocked friend.

 

_Three, oh why can't you see?_

John’s fingers rub into Sherlock’s back and Sherlock’s move from the ex-soldiers shoulder to trace, delicately, the man’s ear. Neither says anything, simply exchanging quiet breaths and unasked questions.  

 

_One, two, three, four_

John closes his eyes and Sherlock surges forward, their lips meeting in a desperate clash of teeth and tongues. John flicks his tongue onto his bottom lip and tastes blood, possibly not his own, before he darts the tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and hears the detective moan softly, pressing their chests together in a desperate effort to seek friction.

_The word's on the streets and it's on the news_

_I'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you_

Suddenly, the groom-to-be pulls away, he straightens his jacket, belatedly noting he’d never taken it off, and desperately tries to look anywhere other than Sherlock’s swollen pink lips (a small amount of blood falling from his bottom lip where John’s incisor had clearly slipped) and dark blown pupils.

 

“I should go,”

 

Sherlock shakes his head and reaches to grasp and John’s shirt.

 

_He's got two left feet and he bites my moves_

 

The doctor dodges the attack.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock rushes, his right hand coming up to wipe at his damp lips, “I’m sorry, I am, just, I, _please_.”

 

_I'm not gonna teach him how to dance, dance, dance, dance_

John shakes his head firmly and steps away again, before taking measured steps towards the door and flicking the latch calmly. As he goes to leave he turns to Sherlock, his heart dropping so far he’s sure it will never come up again at the look on the mans’ face, before forcing a toothless smile and rushing out a “Thank you,”.

 

The four walls of the flat shake as he slams the door and runs down the seventeen steps to the street.

( _I'm not gonna teach him how to dance, dance, dance, dance_ ).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading: comments and kudos are lovely (and it's Easter so it's nice to be lovely).


End file.
